Murder on the Orient Express
by bubblesodatea
Summary: When detective Toris Laurinaitis is offered a ride on the famed Orient Express, he expects velvet seats, wealthy passengers, and a relaxing trip. He never dreamed of a murder in a locked room and twelve suspects, each one of them suspicious. Before he finds the killer, he must find a reason for the killing—but how is a man supposed to discover motives on a snowed-in train?


It was a quarter to seven on a midwinter's night when Toris Laurinaitis found himself in front of the world-famous Pera Palace.

The building was grandiose and tall: it had elevators and pillars that reminded Toris of the temples in Athens. The uniformed man that had opened Toris' door for him (even though Toris had already been reaching for the handle) had been dressed in fine cotton, with a silk tie and gold buttons. The interior of the hotel was even more elegant, with six domes on the ceiling covered in glass and a floor polished so carefully that when Toris looked down, his reflection would stare back at him.

To put is simply, Pera Palace was a classy hotel—a luxury hotel. And while Toris was certainly not a gentleman without class, he, regrettably, was a gentleman who was not used to luxuries. The other pearl wearing, cigar-smoking hotel residents that passed him were obviously much richer than he would ever be.

Toris was not a wealthy man. He had been born to two merchants in the Lithuanian State, and had grown up a completely normal boy. One of his boyhood friends, however, was the wealthy son of a Baron, and this friend had invited him to Turkey. They had spent several days in Turkey exploring both the ancient history and modern culture together, but Toris' time in Istanbul was now drawing to a close. Toris' final night in Turkey would be spent in the Pera Palace.

And so, on this warm Istanbulian midwinter's night, Toris, in his worn olive green jacket and scuffed leather shoes, found himself checking into one of the most expensive hotels in the world.

The receptionist was a broad, tall man with bronze skin and a red taqiyah cap. He gave Toris a welcoming smile.

"Welcome to the Pera Palace, sir. Can I help you?" The man asked in accented English.

"Yes. I have a reservation for one room, one night, underneath 'Toris Laurinaitis'," Toris replied, also in English. The man did not speak Russian, and likewise Toris could not speak Turkish.

"Let me take a look…," the man said, flipping through a thin notebook. "Yes, your room number will be 632, on the sixth floor. Here is your key, sir. Did you want someone to take your luggage up to your room?"

Toris looked at his singular overstuffed suitcase and let out a little laugh. "No, it's alright. Thank you."

He accepted the key from the man and left for the elevator, looking around the lobby as he went along. The other people in the lobby mostly ignored him, but the ones whose gaze did linger were probably most drawn to his shabby clothes and suitcase.

The door of the lift opened with a ding and several people spilled out of the elevator, leaving the lift completely empty. Toris glanced around to see if anyone else was waiting to get on, and then walked in. He was the only one in the room.

The doors slid to a close and Toris found himself staring at a mirror attached to the interior of the elevator walls. He stared at his reflection awkwardly, observing his reflection, and then letting out a genuine smile.

His appearance made him seem non-threatening and harmless. With a thin frame and a mild-mannered expression on his face, Toris seemed to be the last man on earth that anyone in their right mind would be frightened of.

Yes, it would seem as if Toris were a harmless man. He was rather plain looking, with chin-level mousy brown hair (other people might call him "unconventionally attractive"), and dressed somewhat shabbily. He gave off the air of a grade school teacher, or perhaps a meek librarian.

No one would suspect that Toris was, in fact, a successful detective who had had a hand in dozens of closed had a particularly clever mind, and had always been fond of puzzles and riddles growing up. His quiet appearance worked in his favor, for murderers and thieves always considered him to be little of a threat.

Still, with all of his solved cases and hidden brilliance, Toris was not a famous man. Rarely did he allow newspapers to publish who had solved the crime, and any monetary rewards that he received, he sent back home.

Now, at the age of thirty, Toris was simply a drifter who traveled the world and waited for something to happen. While he was technically employed by the League of Nations

The elevator door opened again, and Toris walked out of the lift as others pushed past him to get on. He walked down the carpeted hallway and found his room. The door unlocked.

It was a beautiful room, with polished dark-wood floors. There was a small sitting room with a plush armchair and a coffee table ladled with complimentary treats and liquors. Beyond that, there was the master bedroom, with a King-sized bed and a connecting door to the private balcony.

It was beautiful, expensive, glamourous, lavishly decorated, and... not his room.

He was puzzled. Toris was quite certain that he had booked a single room with no balcony and no sitting room. Perhaps the man downstairs had given him the wrong room? Yes, that was probably what had happened.

After another elevator trip back downstairs, Toris arrived back at where he had started: the front desk.

"Excuse me," Toris said, walking up to the same hat-wearing receptionist as before. "I think that I've been given the key to the wrong room. Is there any chance that I could—"

Before Toris could finish his sentence, he found himself being pushed aside by another man, knocking the wind out of him.

When Toris finally collected himself and was back on his feet, the offender was standing where Toris had been a minute ago, angrily reproaching the receptionist.

"This is unacceptable," the man grumbled in English, slamming his fist onto the mahogany wood of the desk. "Do you know how much I pay for one night in this hotel? And for all that I pay, you give me the wrong room. I asked for two regular rooms and with one king's suite for extra. Instead, you give me three regular rooms, despite the extra money I paid!"

"I'm sorry," the receptionist said, glancing from Toris on the floor to the yelling man, "but we don't have any free suites left since it's the holiday season. A lot of people have been booking our rooms, and there must have been a mix up in your room orders."

"Ugh," the man said. "This is unbelieveable."

Toris cleared his throat, and the other men turned to him.

"Hello, sirs," Toris said mildly. "I couldn't help but overhear your conversation—because I had already been talking to the receptionist when you pushed me aside—and I would like to say that I have been given the wrong room as well."

The man huffed and turned to the receptionist with an air of triumph.

"You see? Not only did you have my room booked wrong, but you made two mistakes in one day. What's the name of your manager, man?"

"Actually," Toris interjected, "I booked a normal room without a suite or a balcony. Instead, I went upstairs to find that room 632 was a suite. If you say that your room is a normal room, then I think we simply had a mix-up, sir."

The man froze and curled his lip. "Yes, perhaps it was that…"

"Well then, sir," Toris said, turning to the receptionist, "could the man and I exchange keys?"

"You two would have to fill out forms, but yes, you could. I apologize to you both for the mix-up," the receptionist said, handing the two a packet of paper each. Toris took the sheet and read through it. He would have to fill out his name and address, as well as complaints for the hotel.

The man glared at the paper in the receptionist's hand, and didn't reach for it.

"Unbelievable," he said, and then turned to a young man standing beside him whom Toris had not noticed before. "Alfred, you fill it out for me. I've had a long day and I need a goddamn break. I'm going outside for a smoke. Tell Ludwig to bring the luggage upstairs when you're done."

Alfred, who looked a great deal more amiable than the older man, nodded. He was a tall, strapping young man, with bright blue and tanned skin. A neat-looking newsboy cap sat on his tousled, golden hair. He replied in English.

"You got it, Mr. Hadrian!"

The angry man, Mr. Hadrian, gave Alfred a curt nod and left to go smoke. took the paper from the receptionist and smiled an understanding sort of smile at Toris. He had perfect white teeth.

"Bit of a pickle we're in, isn't it?" Alfred asked, grabbing a black ink pen off the desk. "I'm sorry that Hadrian shoved you. Are you alright?"

"Oh yes, I'm alright," Toris said. The young man brightened when he spoke.

"You speak Russian?" Alfred asked, ecstatic. Toris nodded, and the other man continued his cheerful chattering in the aforementioned language. "That's great. I speak Russian too. Are you from the Soviet Union?"

Alfred's Russian was strongly accented, but grammatically correct and understandable. Toris was grateful for someone that could speak his native language.

"I'm from the Lithuanian state, near the Baltic Sea," Toris replied, also in Russian. "That man, does he speak Russian too?"

"Who? Oh, Hadrian. No, I'm pretty sure he only speaks English. I'm his translator and secretary, you see, and I travel with him," Alfred said. Toris continued to fill out the form as he spoke.

"What other languages do you speak?"

Alfred thought for a second.

"Hm... English—I'm from New York—German and French, and some conversational level Russian. Just enough to talk about casual things."

Toris chuckled slightly. "So could I assume that you two are in Istanbul for a business trip?"

"Yes , actually!" Alfred said, sounding surprised. "Hadrian was just in conference with some important Turkish fat cat about this and that. I don't care much for business or economics, so I'm not entirely sure what they were talking about in those meetings. To be honest, I don't even know why Hadrian got so upset over the room. I mean, we're only staying here for a night, and then we're off to the train station early in the morning."

"Perhaps it's just the kind of man that your boss is," Toris said. "I would assume that you and your boss are heading to Western Europe. Which train are you taking?"

Toris had concluded that Alfred would be heading to Western Europe because most of the train lines ran that way, and because Alfred was an American. Since his business trip was over, it would be reasonable to assume that he would be heading to a port to sail back to America.

"The name of the train? It's called the Orient Express, I think. It's a pretty ambitious name when you think about it: The Orient Express!," Alfred declared dramatically. "A train able to reach every single country in Europe and Africa and Asia, even across oceans. Can you imagine trains crossing oceans like submarines or boats?"

"The Orient Express…"

That was the name of the train that Toris had been trying to book. It went from Istanbul to Paris over the course of five days. Since the next time it would be departing the station would be tomorrow morning, it meant that he wouldn't have to stay at the hotel for more than one day. Toris placed his pen down and looked over his paper.

"Do you think I could book a seat on the train?" Toris asked. Alfred dropped his pen and glanced over to Toris, before leaning over and picking it up. He only spoke after an awkward minute of silence.

"Well, I'm pretty sure that the train's booked full. I don't know if you'll be able to get a seat."

Toris raised an eyebrow. "Really? I had no idea that trains would be that crowded during this season."

It was curious that the train would be that cramped with nothing significant was going on, but it was more curious as to how this secretary knew so. Still, it wasn't that much of a thought to worry over, and Toris dismissed it.

"Ah, well, maybe a lot of people just have a lot of business this week and they just happened to take that train. The universe works in mysterious ways," Alfred said dismissively, before looking down at his own paper and frowning slightly. "Say, can you help me? I can't remember the name that your suite was. What was it? 642?"

Toris leaned over and quickly read through the paper.

Julius X. Hadrian would like to request a room change to room _

"Room 632, on the sixth floor," Toris said. Alfred quickly scribbled the number down on the paper, and then placed his pen back on the desk.

"Alright! I'm done," he said cheerfully. "That took a lot longer than I thought it would. Hadrian's probably angry because I still haven't told Ludwig about the luggage... Oh well. It was nice meeting you, old sport. See you around!"

Alfred gave Toris one last blindingly-perfect smile, tipped his beige newsboy cap, and left to go find whoever 'Ludwig' was.

The receptionist took Alfred's paper off the desk and turned to Toris.

"Are you done with your form too, sir?" he asked. Toris nodded and jotted down the final words onto the paper, then handed the form over to the receptionist.

"I'm sorry for the room mix-up. Is there anything I could do to help?" The receptionist asked.

Toris thought for a moment.

"As a matter of fact, there is something you could do to help me. Could you kindly direct me to the hotel's restaurant? I'm meeting a friend for dinner."

* * *

"How many people in your party tonight, sir?"

"Just two," Toris said to the waiter, "but I think we already have reservations under the name 'Galante'. Could you check?"

The waiter stood up straighter when he heard the name "Galante". "Yes, it seems that you do have a reservation. A table near the back, sir?"

Toris nodded, and the waiter led him to a polished square table near a leafy potted tree. The chair was pulled out for him, and he sat down. The waiter looked at him anxiously and set down a basket of pide bread covered in meat and olive oil. It smelled amazing; Toris reached over for a bread but the waiter cleared his throat before Toris could eat.

"Your meals will be made by the chef, customarily for you. There will be no need to order anything because of this. Sir, did you have any preferences for spirits? Wine, beer, champagne—on the house, of course."

"Just something hot to drink for me, please."

"Of course. I know just the thing!" The waiter said, stumbling over his words, eager to prove himself. "Salep! Made with hot milk and roses or cinnamon, your choice."

"Yes, that sounds fine. Cinnamon, if that could be arranged."

The waiter nodded, wringing his hands. "Of course! I mean, it'll certainly be arranged. Let me know when your partner comes, alright?"

Toris nodded once again, and the waiter scampered away. Once he left, Toris sighed, somewhat amused. Of course this would be the service Toris would be getting once he said 'Galante'.

Raivis Galante was the name of the wealthy childhood friend that he was meeting with, and so it shouldn't have come to a surprise to Toris that the waiter had instantly treated him better when he had hear his name.

Not only was he the son of a Baron from the Soviet state of Latvia, but he was also the director of the famous train that was the cause of all of Pera Palace's glamour: the Orient Express. In fact, he was the reason that Toris had been so sure of securing a room for himself for his ride to Paris. Raivis had never mentioned anything about the train being fully-booked when Toris spoke about the Orient Express, so maybe it was a mistake on Alfred's behalf. Perhaps his Russian wasn't as adequate as Toris had thought it had been.

Toris shifted in his seat, one hand holding a pide as he looked over the restaurant. A large chandelier hung from the tall ceiling and there was a string quartet playing on the far end. Near the violinist was a table where the man from earlier, Hadrian, was sitting, next to a muscled blond man. Across from the pair sat Alfred. Neither of them could see Toris since his table was angled out of eyesight and somewhat blocked by the potted plant. Everyone in the restaurant spoke in hushed, polite-sounding voices, with the occasional break of conversation for wine glasses to chime, or for forks to scrape against china. It was a nice, quiet kind of background music.

The aromatic scent of citrus flowers and sunshine brought him up from his idle staring, and Toris looked to see a blonde woman walking confidently past his table, chattering away to the man next to her. She was a pretty young woman who must of been one of the 'flapper girls' that Toris had heard were the height of fashion. A red cloche hat with a rather large scarlet ibis feather rested on her short, finger-curled hair.

Toris stared at her, slightly mystified to see a person so full of life and energy. Yet, her purposeful steps and the clinking of her heavy jewelry stopped once she reached a table a few paces away from Toris'.

There, a man in an emerald green sweater vest and perfect posture sat, cutting his fish. The woman leaned over and said something. The man's back was turned to Toris, but Toris knew from the impatient look on the woman's face that he had not replied.

"Listen!" She said louder, slapping her palm against the tablecloth and Toris could just hear her. "Everything's gonna change tomorrow, so stop beating around the bush and just answer me!"

The man set his utensils down and turned to glare at the woman. Toris could see his face now, but the thing that stood out the most about the man were his thick eyebrows and his heavy-set d eyes. His mouth moved, but he spoke much quieter than the woman. She rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, yeah. I know that. Just don't do anything weird, you darb man, or I'll never hear the end of it."

Then the woman left, the clink-clink of her bracelets disappearing as she walked out of the restaurant.

Toris wasn't sure of the definitions for American-English slang, but from the way the man's mouth went into a straight line, it sounded like a 'darb' was a bad thing. Maybe the flapper had meant 'drab'? Toris knew what 'drab' meant; maybe that was what the woman had said.

People-watching was no longer interesting now that the dining hall had returned to the quiet conversation of before. A quarter-hour passed as Toris finished his pide, and then another one. The waiter constantly ducked in to check on him, first handing him his drink and then just stealing glances, eager to see if his well-known dining partner had arrived yet. Toris himself was just wondering where Raivis was when he heard someone shuffle toward the table. Smiling slightly, he looked up.

Raivis was standing next to the empty chair facing Toris in a dark red suit and tie, a nervous half-smile on his face.

"Uh… Hi, Toris. I'm so, so sorry that I'm late. The train needed to be restocked with plates and utensils, and the delivery car was late—"

"It's alright, Raivis," Toris said, gently placing a hand on Raivis' arm to calm him down. Raivis sighed and sat down on the chair opposite Toris.

"I really am sorry about this," Raivis said. "It's just—there are so many things to prepare for tomorrow's journey—and you're one of my greatest friends, so I'd want to make everything flawless for you should you choose to come—I just want everything to be perfect!"

He said the last part loudly out of nervousness, and a few heads turned to look at him. Raivis flushed a deep maroon and slid down in his chair. Toris wasn't surprised with his friend's flustered reaction to the sudden attention; Raivis was an intelligent man, yes, but Toris knew that a large reason that he had gotten the job of director was because of his father, the Baron. He was perfectly apt at his job, but bearing the task of something as important as director of a major train line meant that Raivis attracted unwanted fame as well—something that Toris knew he hated.

The waiter from before had also heard Raivis' outburst, and had quickly made his way to the table. He gave the director a charming smile and didn't so much as glance in Toris' direction.

"You shouldn't be upset, Director Galante," he said smoothly in English, interrupting Toris and Raivis' Russian conversation. "Here at the Pera Palace, we're all very devoted to providing the best service we can. We're all very happy with what you've done with the railroad station and train. In fact, I myself am a huge supporter of you ever since you got the job a few years ago. Now, I would be honored to offer you a complimentary spirit—"

Raivis balked, incredibly uncomfortable with the attention. The poor man looked like he wanted nothing more than to dissolve into the floor beneath them. Toris cleared his throat; both the waiter and Raivis turned to him, Raivis relieved that the spotlight was on someone other than himself.

"If it's alright with you, Raivis," Toris said, "could we have our food now? I'm sure that Director Galante is very hungry after a long day of working. Conversation is good and all, but we can't very well eat our words, now can we?"

"... Yes, of course," the waiter said awkwardly, seeming to have just remembered that Toris existed. "I have forgotten how exhausted and hungry the Director must be after a long day of working…"

"Very, very exhausted, and even more hungry," Toris agreed, "so please, brighten his spirits with some drink, if you will. We'll take a wine. I've heard that Adakarasi is a Turkish specialty."

The waiter nodded and walked off, and the onlookers turned back to their own conversations. Toris smoothed out the wrinkles in the table cloth with one hand and pushed a loaf of now-cold pide onto Raivis' empty bread plate with the other. The other man's face was hidden in his arms, but Toris started talking anyways. This reminded him of their time as boys, whenever Raivis needed to be consoled by him after being frightened or bullied; even after twenty years, nothing had really changed between the two.

"You know, I don't think that man knew anything about you besides the fact that you're the Director. Did you notice he pronounced your name wrong?" asked Toris speaking in Russian once more, trying to distract Raivis. "It must have been the shock of meeting someone so influential and held in such high esteem that made him act like that; he acted perfectly considerate earlier tonight."

Raivis lowered his arms, his face slowly turning back to his normal peachy color. He let out a nervous laugh and accepted the loaf of bread from Toris.

"I-It must of been that," Raivis muttered, "I'm sorry for shouting and for clamming up suddenly. I was a bit stressed because of work, and I was worried that you would be upset at me for being late to our dinner."

"It's not a problem. You have an important job after all, unlike myself."

Raivis blushed, but at least looked more flattered than nervous. "Ah, don't say that about yourself. I'm sure that you're a very important… um..."

"Primary school teacher," Toris said, lying easily, because after all, how was he supposed to tell his meekest friend that he was a detective and world-class sleuth? Thankfully, the brown-eyed man bought it.

"Primary school teacher! That's very important, Toris. How could anyone do anything without teachers?"

"You flatter me," Toris said, smiling slightly. Raivis relaxed and finally started eating.

"Ah, I've been meaning to thank you for the past fews because it was a month ago, but thank you for writing a letter for me on my birthday. This year I was too busy to celebrate, and I might have even forgotten it if you hadn't written a birthday card," Raivis said.

"You're welcome. It was your twenty eighth birthday this year, but I still remember when you were eight," Toris said. Raivis looked down at the dinner table and blushed slightly.

"There's no need to start talking about me like an old man talking about his grandchild, Toris. You're still only thirty."

The sides of Toris' mouth curled up into a smile. "Sorry. But still, do you remember when we were in primary school? You didn't have freckles back then."

Raivis instinctively placed a hand on his freckled cheek. "Oh, they're from the Mediterranean sun. I never really could get a tan, only spots and sunburns."

"That's the sorrow of everyone from Northern Europe," Toris said. "I've been relatively lucky on my stay here and haven't burned or anything. Your sister told me to tell you to be careful, because she doesn't want you coming home looking more like a baked potato than her brother."

"That… sounds like something she would say. Do you remember when she stole your maths book and hid it in the pantry? You managed to find it so quickly, just from the dust on her fingertips."

Toris definitely remembered that day; it was the day he had first really learned how good he was at detective work. Placing together everything out by process of elimination and simple logic and reasoning had excited him. To this day, he still felt most in his element whenever he was approached with a mystery. Still, as far as Raivis knew, that day had simply been a day when his sister had be a nuisance.

There was a lull in the conversation as Toris finished off the rest of his drink and Raivis continued to recall stories from their childhood. The waiter soon returned, his arms ladened with dishes and glasses.

"Here you are, sirs," the waiter said. He set a dish in front of Toris. "For you, sir, midye dolma."

"Stuffed mussels," Raivis whispered in Russian to a grateful Toris who had no idea what "midye dolma" had meant.

"And for you, director, your dish is lamb pilaf and your wine: Adakarasi, as requested by your friend. If there is anything else you require, don't hesitate to call me."

"We won't. Thank you."

As the waiter left, Toris looked closer at the mussels on his plate. They were yellowy-orange in color, still in the shells, and stuffed with spiced rice and thinly minced carrots.

"I've never had these before," Toris said, poking a mussel with his fork. "As you know, the food at home is mostly potatoes and dairy, and I've mostly just been eating street food for the duration of my stay in Istanbul. I just scoop the edible part out, right?"

"Yes." Raivis said. He had pilaf, which Toris had eaten before and was much less confusing than seafood. The dish was familiar to him: it was herbed rice with vegetables and lamb, but it looked a great deal fancier than the ones Toris had had on the street. Raivis looked at the food on his plate and let out content sigh.

"The food here is always amazing when I dine here," Raivis said, "that I'm sorry to have missed any of this. I'm sorry I upset you for being late."

"I'm not upset, but this is our last dinner together for a while," Toris agreed, nodding. The shorter man looked up from the table and opened his mouth in surprise.

"What do you mean by that? We still have the dinners on the train, don't we?" Raivis asked.

Toris shook his head and took a sip of wine before answering slowly, somewhat embarrassed.

"Well, ah, I never got a chance to formally book a room because I spent so much time touring with you. To be honest, I thought that the train rooms would still be empty because there usually isn't that much travel around this season, but today a man brought the obvious to my attention: the train is most likely booked full, isn't it?"

His curly-haired companion gave him an apologetic smile and fiddled with the fork in his hands.

"Well…There was an empty berth in second class this morning but it was booked by another man last minute," Raivis said, and then smiled. "I'm sorry to hear that you couldn't reserve a seat, but at least now you know that you should never wait until the day before."

As disappointing as it was to hear that there really were no rooms left, it was reassuring to know that Raivis was feeling well enough to smile and chide Toris for procrastinating.

"Still, and I hate to take advantage of you, but is there any possible way I could go onboard? I'd sleep in the washrooms if I had too."

"Hm, well…," Raivis mulled, "I'm allowed to bring a guest or two of my own choosing every once in awhile, but they usually have unoccupied rooms for that. There is a couch in my suite that you could sleep on, but we'd have to get extra pillows and blankets—but that's easy of course, very easy to do… And seating in the other cars wouldn't be of issue. Toris, would you really be alright with sleeping on a couch for five days?"

"That would be fine; I've slept in places more uncomfortable than a couch before. If I really could get onto the train, I'd be in debt to you forever. Thank you, Raivis!"

Raivis blushed again, but he looked rather pleased with himself.

"Of course, Toris. I'd do anything to help a friend as great as you!"

He stammered and turned red again, but Toris found this rather endearing. Still, he didn't say this outloud because telling Raivis that he was blushing would only make the man even more flustered.

"So," Toris said, pretending to not notice Raivis' reddening face, "would I meet you at the station tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, around six in the morning. It'll be boarding at Gate 2, and I suppose you can take a taxi. I'll be at the station from five, so you can meet up with me at the ticket gate and wait there until the other passengers are checked in. You only have one suitcase, right?"

Toris nodded.

"That'll make it easier for boarding, then. Yes, you just have to meet me at the ticket gate tomorrow morning. You do have proper clothes for cold weather, right? Istanbul is far warmer than the rest of Europe during the winter, but the journey to Paris will be chilly."

"Of course."

Toris smiled at his friend and held up his wine glass. Raivis looked mildly surprised, but did the same.

"Here's to hoping that our train ride across that Europe is nothing short of relaxing," Toris said, toasting his glass against Raivis'. "And here's to safe travels."

"Yes," Raivis echoed, "to safe travels."

* * *

Hi, it's me Bubble here with a new fic!

*ducks as people throw rocks at me*

I'm sorry I haven't been working on my other two incomplete fics, but it's Nano month and I wanted to do something cool. I promise there will new chapters for both APSM and The Janus Project before the year ends!

This will very loosely follow the plot of Christie's book, but I'm trying my hardest to still make it an original story and not just Hetalia characters copy/pasted into her book. I hope you'll enjoy this train bound journey aboard the Orient Express!


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